Biggles Makes Ends Meet

by W E Johns

  “You’re not thinking of going in there!” cried Ginger, aghast.

  “It seems a good opportunity,” returned Biggles, calmly. “I doubt if we shall ever have a better one.”

  “How are you going to get in?”

  Biggles tried the window. It was fastened on the inside.

  “Bash a hole through the glass,” suggested Bertie.

  “That won’t do. He’d guess why it had been broken. I’d rather not give him reason to suspect that there were strangers about, if he doesn’t know it already. I’ll slip round and in through the front door, if it isn’t locked. I can unfasten the window from the inside and leave that way. That’ll be about all we can do here.”

  “But what about something to eat?” protested Ginger.

  “Short of holding up that coolie with a gun, which would start everyone on the island looking for us, there’s no way of getting at it that I can see. For the moment it looks like being coconuts. You can’t eat dry rice, and to cook it would mean lighting a fire. This is no time to make smoke. Wait a minute. Kick the wall if you see anyone coming.” So saying Biggles walked quickly to the front of the hut.

  Minutes passed. Ginger and Bertie watched the airfield. No one appeared. Ginger took a quick peep through the window. Biggles was folding some papers and putting them in his pocket. He then walked over to the sacks. The radio started buzzing Morse. Ginger listened, but unable to make sense of the signal decided it must be in code. He returned to Bertie. “I wish he’d buck up,” he muttered impatiently. “He’s taking an awful risk.”

  Biggles appeared at the window. He opened it, dropped out and closed it behind him. “Okay,” he said. “Look at this!” He held out a small, flat piece of yellow metal. It had rough edges and was studded with cinders. “Gold,” he went on. “Tidore’s gold, maybe. It was on its way to India in the machine that crashed. No wonder the Colonel was raking the ashes. There are a couple of sackfuls of this stuff inside. But let’s get out of this before the crowd comes back. There’s nothing more we can do here. I think we’ve seen the lot.”

  “Which way?” queried Ginger, after they had pushed a few yards into the jungle.

  “We’ll go back to our beach and wait there,” decided Biggles. “It’s as good as anywhere. But first of all I want to collect those cigarettes and matches I laid out to dry.”

  Picking their way just inside the fringe of the jungle they hastened in that direction. “I hoped to find some cigarettes in the Colonel’s room, but I couldn’t see any,” Biggles told them. “I think we should be about opposite the place where I left mine,” he added. “Let’s go down.”

  They had been walking along the top of the scrub-covered bank below which lay the beaches; but Biggles now changed direction, and going downhill made straight, as near as he could judge, for the rock on which he had left the cigarettes. Actually, he was more anxious to get the matches, in case it became necessary to make a smoke signal to show Algy where they were. As a matter of detail he had a petrol lighter, but this, he had discovered, was out of action, either the result of water getting into it during the rainstorm or through some other fault.

  When they were all about thirty or forty yards from the rock, and could see the cigarettes as they had been left except that they had become somewhat scattered by the breeze. Biggles said: “We’ll go back to our beach along the top; it’ll be easier than following the foreshore. You might as well wait here. I’ll collect your matches with mine.”

  Ginger and Bertie stopped. Biggles went on down. Ginger watched him, although not with any particular interest, for there appeared to be no danger—no immediate danger, at all events. He saw Biggles reach the rock, examine one or two of the cigarettes, and apparently satisfied with them start putting them in his case. He collected one or two that had been blown off the rock by the breeze, put one in his mouth and lit it.

  A movement just beyond him caught Ginger’s eye and jerked him from casual observation to tense attention. A yellow face was rising slowly from the bushes. For a moment it remained. Then it had gone, leaving him wondering if his imagination was playing tricks, so quickly had it happened. It took him a couple of seconds to recover from the shock, and by the end of that time the face had appeared again, nearer to Biggles, who obviously had no idea that he was being stalked.

  By now Ginger had grasped the situation and he moved fast. He whipped out his pistol and at the same time shouted: “Look out. Biggles!” The stalker heard him too, as he was bound to. He sprang upright, an arm held back over his shoulder as if to throw something. Ginger’s gun crashed. He missed, but the shot served its purpose. With extraordinary agility the man darted away through the scrub, so that by the time Biggles had turned, pistol in hand, he was out of sight, over the top of the rise, going in the direction of the cove.

  “There he goes, the blighter,” muttered Bertie.

  Biggles hurried up. Ginger told him what had happened.

  “I’m afraid that’s torn it,” was Biggles’ comment. “Even if the people in the cove didn’t hear the shot they’ll soon know about it. Thanks, Ginger. That was careless of me. Good thing you happened to be watching. Here, take your matches, you two.”

  “I fancy that little yellow swipe had seen the cigarettes and was lying there waiting for someone to collect ‘em,” surmised Ginger.

  “This isn’t going to make things easier,” answered Biggles. “Let’s get along to our beach. There’s more cover at that end of the island.”

  They had reached the top of the bank, and were moving along as quickly as the shrubs allowed, when Biggles, who was leading, pulled up short. “Hark!” he exclaimed.

  There was little need to listen, for with a slant of wind the drone of an approaching aircraft could be heard distinctly.

  “Algy!” said Ginger.

  With one accord they hurried on in the hope of reaching the beach before the aircraft flew low over it, as there was every reason to suppose it would. The only doubt in Ginger’s mind, and his only worry, was the state of the sea. It had gone down considerably, but it was still rough—too rough, he thought, for a landing. There was a chance, however, that the water might be less agitated in the little bay whereon the Otter had made its original landing.

  It was Biggles who put an end to this sort of speculation. He pulled up, a puzzled expression on his face. “They don’t sound to me like the Otter’s engines,” he said, looking a little bewildered.

  They moved on to where the ground was a little more open. Their eyes searched the sky in the direction from which the sound came. For a few seconds no one spoke. Then Biggles said, in a voice which, in the circumstances, was strangely calm: “By thunder ! If it isn’t another Dakota. This is something I did not reckon on.”

  “Well, blow me down and pick me up,” muttered Bertie. “The blighters aren’t playing the game.”

  “Let’s watch this,” suggested Biggles. “There’s no need for us to break our necks rushing back to the beach.”

  As for Ginger, he had never been more bitterly disappointed in his life. He felt it was too much. His hopes, which had soared so high, had crashed to the lowest point possible.

  “No wonder the Colonel was in a hurry to salvage his gold,” said Biggles, reflectively. “Whether this was all arranged, or whether he has called this new Dakota by radio, we can now believe what Tidore said about the gang being in business in a big way. I’m beginning to wonder how big it really is, and how many more machines they have at their disposal.”

  The Dakota landed. It taxied in. The Colonel appeared, walking fast to meet it. Behind him straggled a small mob; the men who had been working in the cove. The Dakota pilot switched off. A man got out. Another. Then a third.

  Said Bertie, screwing his monocle into his eye: “Tell me. Am I going nutty or does that feller look uncommonly like Algy?”

  Said Ginger: “If I wasn’t sure it couldn’t be I’d say it was him.”

  Said Biggles, calmly: “Don’t let’s fool ourselves. It
is Algy.”

  In silence they watched the four men walk to the Colonel’s quarters, into which, presently, they disappeared.

  “Just now,” said Biggles, slowly, “we were patting ourselves on the back for having hit the Colonel a smack in the eye. He’s now fetched us a crack which has made me, for one, rock on my heels. But there is this about it. We do at least know that Algy did manage to get away, and why he wasn’t washed up on the beach. That’s a relief.”

  “We also know where he is, although I don’t see much cause for jubilation in that,” said Ginger wearily.

  CHAPTER XIII

  HARD GOING FOR ALGY

  IT is not difficult to imagine how Algy felt when, standing guard over the machine, on the beach, he realized that bad weather was not only on the way but coming fast. His every instinct as an airman was to get away while departure was possible; yet, as he told himself as he paced up and down in a fever of impatience, how could he go and leave the others there, with no hope of ever getting off the island without the machine?

  The crux of the matter was, even before an hour had passed he expected them back at any moment. Should he leave, they might within a minute arrive on the beach, perhaps pursued, only to find him gone. Once off, there could be no return in such conditions. Already the aircraft was pitching as the breakers rolled in ever farther up the beach. It could only be a question of time before the Otter dragged her anchor to be pounded in the surf. The next headland did provide a little shelter, with an area of reasonably calm water, and this he watched with the most acute anxiety, for already there could be no question of taking the aircraft on to the open sea.

  Another quarter of an hour passed. What on earth were they doing? he pondered desperately. What could be keeping them? Couldn’t they see what was happening? To go or to stay? To stay would probably mean seeing the machine smashed to pieces on the beach. Yet how could he go and leave them there? Never in his experience had he been forced to make such a decision. The worst of the storm, he suspected, was yet to come. Clouds were piling up. The moonlight was intermittent. The gusts of wind were increasing in violence.

  For a minute or two more he stood staring up the beach, torn by indecision; then he made up his mind, prompted by the certain knowledge that unless he got off now he never would get off, and they would all be marooned. Not that he was by any means certain that he would be able to get off. He could only judge from where he stood the state of what he thought the only area of reasonable water left. It might turn out to be rougher than he supposed. And there was not very much room. Unless the machine lifted before she stuck her nose into the first big roller she would be swamped when she met it head on.

  He waded out to the machine and, not without difficulty, for it was bucking like an unbroken horse, got on board. At imminent risk of being tossed overboard he got the anchor in and rushed back to his seat, afraid they would be blown ashore before he could start up and get the Otter’s nose into the wind. There was no question of getting off the short, shelving, curving beach itself. It would have been cross-wind, anyway.

  He breathed a prayer of relief when the engines started without protest, and giving them enough throttle to hold the machine head to wind snatched a last glance over his shoulder. A brief glimpse showed the beach still deserted. Then the rain started, instantly to reduce visibility to a matter of yards.

  The next few minutes were sheer horror. The aircraft wallowed. It plunged about in a cloud of spray and rain. Things were a little better when it reached the lee of the headland, but even so, when Algy opened up to take off it was an act of desperation. He could only judge his position by the behaviour of the flying-boat. Half-dazed by noise of thunder, and rain and spray lashing the airframe, blinded by lightning and water streaming down the windscreen, he was now prepared to risk anything to get out of it. To the noise of the storm was now added that of his engines. He knew that he was racing forward, but into what he did not know. He felt the machine kicked into the air by a wave and braced himself for the crash that would come when it fell back. For a few seconds the aircraft seemed to wallow as gravity and lift fought for supremacy. His engines won, and he was airborne. Never was he more grateful to power units for doing, in the face of every difficulty, the work for which they had been designed.

  For a little while longer, as the airscrews clawed their way up the face of the storm, the Otter was tossed and buffeted about like a piece of paper. He wanted altitude as a sailor prays for sea-room. When he felt that he had enough to turn in safety he brought the machine round and raced away on the breast of the gale. For the first time in what had seemed hours he relaxed a little, realizing that apart from anything else he had come near to being seasick. There is a limit to what the toughest stomach will stand.

  The rain stopped. Or it would be more correct to say he ran out of it; which revealed how local it was. He was staring down, unable to see anything clearly, when a flash of lightning for a split second showed a black stain that could only be an island, although whether or not it was the piece of land that he had just left he was unable to determine.

  Conditions improved quickly as he roared on out of the storm area, and while he was thankful to be alive he could not help reflecting what monstrous bad luck it was that the island should have lain directly in its path. At any other time, an hour earlier or an hour later, it would not have mattered. What Biggles and the others would think when they returned to the rendezvous and found him gone was something on which he did not dwell. They would understand why he had gone, but his survival would be a matter for conjecture. They would soon know the answer to that, however, for it was a foregone conclusion in his mind that as soon as daylight came, and weather conditions made it possible, he would return. The first thing now was to find Kutaradja, his nearest haven of refuge.

  He made a rough computation, with allowances for the direction of the storm, and with plenty of southerly so that whatever happened he would not miss the thousand-mile long island of Sumatra, he held on his way. What to do next was the problem that exercised his mind. There seemed little point in going back to the island even if the weather cleared, while the sea ran high. Using the Otter as a landplane he could get down on the airstrip, but what was the use of that? It would amount to delivering himself, and the aircraft, into the hands of the enemy. He toyed with the idea of sending an urgent signal to the Air Commodore in the hope that he would organize a police or military rescue party from Singapore or some other British base within striking distance.

  He reached Sumatra without coming to a decision. A strong wind was blowing but visibility was fair. Lights showed where people were on the move. Actually, he made his landfall too far south, but he merely had to turn north, following the coast, to bring the airport in sight.

  He landed, and as dust was swirling, arranged for hangar accommodation until such time as he would again require the machine. Formalities completed he went to the airport hotel for a room, feeling that as he could do nothing while the gale persisted he might as well get some sleep. He thought the reception clerk on duty gave him a curious look when he signed the visitors’ book but he paid no attention to it, supposing that the hour of his arrival had aroused the man’s curiosity. He was to remember this later on, however.

  A stiffish breeze was blowing, but the sun was shining, when he awoke, so after a quick bath and a light breakfast he went along to the control building for the latest weather report and also to see about getting the Otter refuelled. Moreover, he wanted to have a good look at the machine in daylight to confirm that it was no worse for the rough handling it had received overnight. These things he did. The meteorological report was not too bad. A short period of fine weather between the advance storm and the arrival of the monsoon was forecast. While the Otter’s tanks were being filled he made a top inspection of the hull and the wings and could find nothing wrong.

  By now he knew what he was going to do. He would wait until the afternoon, by which time the state of the sea should have fallen
to ‘moderate’, and then return to the island to pick up the others. He did not think there should be any difficulty in finding them. They would in all probability be waiting at the rendezvous; or if they were not, they would make their way to it when the Otter appeared.

  Having nothing better to do he hung about the tarmac. One or two passenger liners came in from the north and the south and went on their way. Between such visits the airport was more or less deserted.

  In view of what was presently to happen it must be remembered that Algy had no cause to feel insecure or apprehensive of danger. On the occasion of his one previous visit he had remained with the machine while the others went to the control building. He learned from them what had happened there, but he himself had never seen any of the staff other than the aircraft hands who worked in the hangars and on the tarmac. He knew all about Vandershon being stabbed, and was under the impression that due to Biggles’ interference the man responsible, the Colonel’s spy, had been arrested. He assumed, therefore, that the place had been cleaned up and there was no need for any extraordinary precautions. In that he may have been a little too complacent; but there was some justification for his attitude. After all, he was on an official airport, in broad daylight, with people moving about from time to time.

  He saw nothing in the least odd about it when, just before noon, a Dakota, carrying Indian registration marks, came in from the east. Thousands of Dakotas, some with modifications for special work, were built during the war. Indeed, in the matter of numbers turned out the type might hold the record. The war over, those that were still serviceable, relieved of their war equipment and converted to freight or passenger machines, were to be found in nearly every country in the world. These facts, of which Algy was well aware, are mentioned to account for his lack of interest in the new arrival. He certainly did not associate it with the Colonel, and there was really no reason why he should.